


noodlepants

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The boys dinner wrong.





	noodlepants

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Special thanks to Cream_Pudding for the plotbun. Her stipulation was the title.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV, Cup Noodles, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“Still there, dude.”

“No, I got it out.” 

“No, there’s another one. Here, lemme—”

“Hey, watch it!”

“Wait, what am I doing? I shouldn’t be helping you clean up; I should be getting a pic of this! The crown prince with moss in his hair, imagine the price that’ll fetch—!”

“Gimme that—!”

Gladiolus steps out of the way as Noctis darts past him, jumping on Prompto and leaping for the camera that Prompto whirls around to protect. Realistically, they shouldn’t be talking so loudly. They’re out in the daemon-invested middle of nowhere. But Gladiolus is fairly certain they’ve killed everything in the area, and they’re close enough to the safety of their haven that he can see the smoke. So he lets the other two squabble like teenagers and just keeps walking while they fall behind. It’s too late at night to care about their shenanigans, and he’s too hungry to get involved. The sky’s already dark, but the stars provide enough light through the sparse sprinkling of trees for him to find his way without trouble. He’s at their campsite in a couple of minutes, relieved to see a pot suspended over the fire.

Ignis is kneeling beside their line of already setup chairs, riffling through their supply bag. Gladiolus beelines for the fire before reaching him, checking in on dinner. 

There’s no food in the pot—just water. It isn’t quite boiling, but Gladiolus can hear it simmering. Without having to be asked, Ignis tells him, “We’re running low on supplies. I’m going to try to make some sort of stew with what’s left.”

Gladiolus’ stomach rumbles in disappointment. He grunts, “Thanks,” out of habit. He knows Ignis tries, and does remarkably well with what little they usually have. But sometimes Gladiolus still thinks wistfully on the full meals he could cart out of the Citadel, and the endless supply of cup noodles that lined his apartment’s cupboards. Out in the wilderness without a steady paycheck and the limited space of the Regalia’s trunk, there’s only so much they can do. 

He joins Ignis at the bag anyway and spots some white packaging at the bottom. He’s pulling it out before Ignis can stop him, though Ignis protests, “We only have one of those left...”

“Then it’s a good thing there’s only one person here who wants it.”

Ignis sighs. But he doesn’t stop Gladiolus carting the cup noodles back to the fire. Taking a seat in his foldout chair, he pries the lid off and rests the cup between his thighs, knowing it’ll get too hot for his unprotected hands. At least the leather of his pants is fairly thick. Then he’s leaning over for the pot and pouring the water in. Without a plate to weigh it down, he has to hold the paper lid overtop with his bare hand, but in the cool evening air, the heat is welcome. Ignis shakes his head but returns to putting together dinner for the rest of them. 

He’s only managed to sort out a few herbs before Noctis and Prompto come wandering up the slope, joining them around the campfire. Prompto observantly sniffs the air, but Noctis looks half asleep. He yawns and stretches his arms as he asks, “What’d we get, Iggy?”

“Soup, in ten or so.”

Prompto cuts in, “What’s Gladio got?”

Gladiolus grunts, “My dinner.”

Ignis betrays him: “The last of our cup noodles, I’m afraid.”

“What?!”

“What the hell, Gladio?” Noctis grumbles, giving him a tired death glare. 

Prompto whines, “That’s not fair!”

Gladiolus shrugs. “Life ain’t fair.”

Noctis mutters, “Asshole.”

“I want some! You should have to share!”

Gladiolus snorts. “The only way you’re getting any of this is if you come pry it out of my lap.”

He means it as a joke, of course. Noctis wrinkles his nose. But Prompto dons that serious, determined look he gets when someone challenges him to a game he thinks he can actually win. He walks straight over, his lithe silhouette licked orange in the approaching firelight, and Gladiolus isn’t intimidated in the slightest. 

Prompto stops right in front of Gladiolus, standing tall above him yet still looking like a scrawny kid Gladiolus could bench-press in his sleep, and then Prompto suddenly recoils and shrieks, “Behemoth!”

On pure Shield instinct, Gladiolus’ head whips around. Of course, there’s nothing behind him. And he can feel Prompto’s slim hands squirming between his thighs and the cup, trying to wrench it away. 

Gladiolus is faster, and he grabs it back, swearing as Prompto stumbles onto the ground and knocks the cup right over. The half-mixed broth goes flying, splattering Gladiolus’ stomach, legs, and Prompto’s freckled face. The noodles pour right over Gladiolus’ crotch—he quickly clamps his thighs together to keep them from sliding onto the chair. It traps one of Prompto’s hands up against his clothed cock, but at least it minimizes the mess. 

The soup stings. It’s not burning, but it’s definitely hot enough to be uncomfortable, and it’s even more uncomfortable to have Prompto kneeling at his feet and attached to his lap. Prompto physically shakes his head, blinking in obvious surprise and splattering more broth around. Off to the side, Gladiolus can hear Noctis laughing. 

A glob of soggy spice slides down Prompto’s cheek, hitting the corner of his lips, and Gladiolus watches his pink tongue come out to swipe it away. Then Prompto’s moaning, “Damn, that tastes so _good_! It’s been way too long since we had fast food!”

Gladiolus knows the feeling. Ignis’ cooking is wonderful, even under the circumstances, but every once in a while, he just wants good old fashioned processed junk. 

Prompto apparently wants it too, and at any cost. Because Prompto ducks forward to bite a chunk of noodles off of Gladiolus’ lap, his nose nudging against Gladiolus’ fly and his cheeks coming up with sauce on them. Gladiolus can’t help grunting, “What the _fuck_ , Prompto!”

“Well, I’m not gonna waste it!” Prompto splutters back, blushing hot beneath the mess. His tongue traces his lips again, and he quietly adds, “Mm, not bad. Kinda leathery, though...”

He moves as though to take another bite, but Gladiolus, sure he’s blushing too, grabs a handful of Prompto’s hair. “You’re not gonna eat dinner off my dick!”

If possible, Prompto’s blush gets even brighter. “Then you shouldn’t have put it on your dick in the first place!”

“I didn’t—Augh!” He winds up just shoving Prompto back: it’s easer. Prompto jerks away, but his hand’s still trapped, and when he tries to squirm it out, that only makes Gladiolus’ problem worse. He opens his legs again, letting Prompto free, but wetting the inside of his thighs in the process. 

Noctis is chuckling, “That’s so gross, Prom!”

“What? You know I can’t resist the sweet taste of noodly goodness!” 

Ignis, the ray of reason, comes around to the side of Gladiolus’ chair. It’s not just the lost noodles and the sodden pants that keep Gladiolus frowning; it’s the effect of Prompto’s proximity to his cock. He can feel his body reacting and just hopes Ignis doesn’t notice. Ignis calmly tells him, “Please remove your pants, Gladio. I’ll clean them.”

Gladiolus glares Prompto down as he stands up, and Prompto at least has the decency to look sheepish. But Gladiolus has to turn around for the actual pushing down his pants part, because he’s definitely rocking a stiffy and doesn’t need them seeing that. Ignis probably notices but thankfully doesn’t comment. He just holds out his hand to collect the material. Gladiolus is about to hand it over when Prompto has the nerve to whistle at his ass. 

So Gladiolus turns and chucks the wet leather at Prompto’s face. Prompto squawks and goes down, to Noctis’ immense amusement and Ignis’ exasperated sigh.

Gladiolus marches back to the tent in chicken-scented boxers, feeling hungry but the victor.


End file.
